skylotus:

Stirring the tea in large sun-brewed jars
The sun is shimmering off of blades of grass
That have gathered, glistening in your hair
It drifts along the soft curves of your shoulders
Into the crooks of your arms; fluttering along your lips
As you breathe in sweet summer-sleep.

 The horizon paints you red, and I am

Taken by your fire that recedes along your
Aura, kissed by cosmic mountains somewhere
I long to trek with eager senses.

 The jars perspire in the twilight, and the moths
Come to extend their feelers in a flutter of wings.
Glow-bugs flicker green—
You rise from sleep.

The sun and the moon are makin’ out
You’re out of the town trying to make it out
And all I see are the palisades and your soul-drought

You come to me 
You come to me

I’m your shaman in a circumstance
Let me take your hand can I have this dance?
Are you too afraid of the consequence?

Blame it all on me.
Blame it all on me.

Well you can’t count the drops in the sea
Without losing your beginner’s mind
Where the notion of logic collides.

Blame it all on me
Blame it all on me. 

This is a documentation of the three worst nights of my life.

I walked into my bathroom, my mouth inexplicably dry, and I switched on the light. I looked at myself in the mirror for a second, before filling the small mug I had to drink from with water. Then suddenly, I felt it: Adrenaline surging through my body. My head felt funny, like someone had wrapped my brain in felt. I couldn’t feel my mouth moving as I called,

“Mom—Mom—MOM!”

The mug slipped from my hand, sloshing water into the basin of the sink and cracking against the porcelain. My mind was racing through every possible thing that could’ve culminated in this instant to conspire to kill me.

Heart Attack, Seizure, Stroke.

There was that woman from that TED talk, she survived a stroke, right? Numbness in the limbs is definitely a heart attack, maybe a stroke, I don’t think I’m melting into anything yet. Seizure oh gods, don’t those hurt? Your muscles get horribly tense, and you black out, don’t you? What if I swallow my tongue, choke, and die?

My Mom never rushes out of her bedroom like you think she would if her child was calling for her with her voice strangled with fear. At some point I’m on the couch, lying flat on my stomach, and I feel like I can’t breathe.

“What’s wrong?” My brother rubs my back, and I try to search for how to describe what I’m feeling.

“Fucked up. I don’t know, I feel all wrong.”

My brother checks for my pulse, and noting that this is normal continues to rub my back. At some point my mother wanders out of her room and looks at me without an ounce of concern.

“You’re just having a Panic Attack.” She tells me succinctly.

At this point I’ve managed to convince myself that this couldn’t possibly be a panic attack, and that this was far worse. That at some point very soon it will be lights out. The agony will be over, and surely I will be dead.

But it drags on…and on…and on…

Part of me starts to resent the fact that I’m not dead yet, and this strange burning sensation makes its way up the back of my neck and into my head, and sits there, uncomfortably. I have this sudden wild urge to chop all of my hair off, but I can’t find any scissors.

At some point, within the inertia of my panic, I stop sleeping. Or if I do sleep, my brain is fraught with nightmares or night terrors, and I wake up feeling even worse.

That burning I mentioned before has managed to make its way to my arms and legs, my hands, feet, and occasionally my face. Waking up with panic becomes too routine, to the point that I can’t remember simple things, and even patterns on bed linens frighten me in their strange molecular complexity.

The robin’s eggs, so soft and blue
Broke in her careless young hands
And bled onto her fingers. 

She disturbed the balance
Of nature when she plucked
Those eggs from their nest

And the lives within those speckled eggs
Fell as still as the river she crept across. 

I could be your savior in a red dress
The girl who has a scar strapped to her chest
Her legs lined with incision wounds
Perforated at the edge of her

Masked face that smells like chocolate
But she can still taste the oxygen
She still remembers the oxygen

And she thinks of the mountains, and the beautiful
Figure skaters that her cerebral palsy will never resemble
And the pianist whose hands lie flat while her fingers curl
Stiffly against black keys with dissonant sounds of

The whirring machines that surrounded her
      Four
               Five Years
                                    And her left thigh
              Puckers and folds in a place where a lover’s hand could fit
And notice that a piece of her was missing from within everything
That had ever come to define her.

Warm mould, sawed off casting
Of a woman in a red dress…
                                Who could’ve been your savior.